


The Tribute

by Evealle



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Betrayal, District 2, Gen, John the Soldier, Loyalty, The Arena
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-30
Updated: 2012-06-27
Packaged: 2017-11-06 07:04:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/416098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evealle/pseuds/Evealle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is sent into the Arena with his strength, his lifelong training, and the bizarre Sherlock Holmes for a mentor. Friendship and loyalty is questioned as the tributes battle to the death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Partying Shernanigans on Tumblr. Prompt 6 for Team Knight focused on dystopian themes, incorporating the line:  
>  _“Then there was only the ocean and the sky and the figure of…”_  
>  Warning: written very quickly.

There he was in the arena. Coming from District 2, John had been training for this moment his whole life. And he had successfully made it to the Cornucopia, stocked up on everything he needed, and met back up with the other careers. There were easy smiles shared between the six of them - Anderson and Sally from District 1, Jim and Sebastian from 4, and his fellow tribute Molly - but they’d already sized each other up in training, cataloging strengths and weaknesses and deciding how things would play out when they were the only ones left.

The arena was small, a flat plain ending in cliffs, all surrounded by an ocean. The cliff wall was flat, a straight drop down into the crashing waves below. There was nothing to provide shelter or cover, just the tall, waving grass. The sun beat down on them all.

—-

The sun was merciless. The group of Careers scoured the arena for water. It was never night here. They were exhausted and dehydrated. It seemed as if any time they stopped to rest for long, another attack was launched on the arena. They’d suffered a fire that ripped across the plain, an earthquake that had made the earth even more difficult to cross, and, the one time the scorching sun had let up a little, a torrential rain storm, leaving the arena muddy but still, somehow, lacking a water source.

It was ironic, John thought. They seemed surrounded by water, but it was of no use to them. They’d lost Jim to the fire, which had left Anderson so badly burned he could barely walk. Another thing to slow them down. Anderson’s complaints were enough to make them want to leave him behind.

—-

John and Molly’s mentor had won the Games two years ago.

He’d been a young tribute, only twelve. Yet he astonished the audience with his superior intellect and apparent lack of morals in the arena. He set brutal traps for his opponents, luring them into agonizing deaths. People wondered whether it was really necessary to be that bloodthirsty but seemed to enjoy the entertainment all the same.

After the Games were over, he gave remarkably calm interviews and expressed himself to be a very stable person, not wild and out of control as one might have thought from his actions in the arena. He didn’t seem to be bloodthirsty at all, simply calculating. He didn’t seem to possess any emotions at all.

He’d been a bit of a prodigy in their district, and his fame had spread to the Capitol even before he became a tribute as he’d redesigned some of the mining equipment to be more efficient and more productive, always a positive in the Capitol. John had heard that his older brother held a significant position in the Peacekeeper training center and was viewed as one of the Capitol’s greatest allies.

But John didn’t meet Sherlock Holmes until after the reaping. 

—-

Compared to the small village John had grown up in, the wealth and grandeur of the Capitol was astonishing. As he and Molly entered their rooms, he couldn’t help his mouth falling slightly open. 

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Sherlock, passing through the door behind him, admonished him. “It’s not  _that_  impressive. You look stupid gawping like that.”

John closed his mouth, pressing his lips tightly together. He resented the fact that his mentor was three years younger than him. Molly, a shy thirteen-year-old whose face had looked rather pale since the reaping, seemed to be in awe of him, Sherlock. Her eyes followed him around the room. 

 _Oh God_ , John thought.  _Why does everyone love Sherlock Holmes?_

—-

And yet, Sherlock was intently focused on John, all but ignoring Molly. He peppered him with questions, setting up what-if scenarios, offering him bits of advice. He barely gave John a minute to himself but shadowed him. If he didn’t act so superior, John would almost think the younger boy admired him. No, this wasn’t adoring puppy kind of following around, the way Molly wanted to do with Sherlock. It was,  _“You’re so idiotic, you’re so dull, you won’t last 5 seconds out there without my expert knowledge which I shall now impart.”_

“Look, you’re so keen, are you sure you don’t fancy another go in the arena?” John finally snapped. “I’m sure someone’d love to have a go at finishing you off.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John,” Sherlock replied seriously. “You know tributes only enter the arena once.”

John rolled his eyes and leaned his head on his fist while Sherlock began lecturing him on what do if the arena was arctic in climate.

—-

The parachute drifted lazily down. The gift was for John. A single water bottle. It was  _cold_. John pressed it eagerly against his forehead and noticed the note taped to the side, damp with condensation. He pulled it off and then saw the expressions of his fellow careers. They stared hungrily at the bottle. He pulled the cap off and took a few grateful gulps, then held it out. “One sip,” he instructed. As they devoured the water, he unfolded the note.

_Leave Anderson. SH._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Careers are ambushed and John and Sarah wrestle in the mud while Sherlock watches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mudwrestling as requested by a Team Knight teammate. Always happy to oblige.

After watching the girl from District 5 in training, John had wanted to become allies with Mary Morstan. She seemed to be talented in many areas, but above all possessed a great deal of speed. He’d never seen someone move so fast, have such quick reaction time. This proved true in her interview as well where she talked circles around Caesar Flickerman. She dropped just enough information about herself to be intriguing to the audience, but still managed to remain a complete mystery. John came away desperately wanting to know more about her.

Sherlock disapproved of her, but John could tell that he too was interested. Still, when he mentioned wanting her for an ally, Sherlock completely refused. “No. You’re a Career. You stick with that team. Choose anymore allies and you’ll be the first one to go when you get into the arena. No one likes someone with divided loyalty.” He glared across the room at Sally and Anderson. “Besides, I don’t trust the District 1s.”

John rolled his eyes. “You don’t trust anyone.”

“But the District 4 tributes seem at least resourceful, maybe even mildly intelligent.” Sherlock told him. 

“And I’m not,” John assumed. He’d come to know Sherlock well over these last few days. 

“No, John. You’re an idiot,” Sherlock reminded him. 

“Right. Of course.” 

“Stay away from Mary Morstan,” Sherlock instructed him.

—-

John didn’t have to worry about getting the others to leave Anderson, as it turned out. Several minutes after the water had arrived from Sherlock, they were ambushed. A ragged group made up of tributes from Districts 8 - an older boy named Dimmock and a girl named Sarah - 10 - a girl he couldn’t remember much about but thought was called Anthea - and 5 - Mary Morstan.

They all seemed in better shape then the group of Careers, or at least had the determination to fight. Anderson went down quickly, taken out by Dimmock’s knife in his throat. Sally was quickly engaged in a melee with Anthea while Sebastian pulled out his bow and started firing at the attackers, immediately slaying Dimmock. John wrestled with Sarah, who had gone for Molly. 

The two struggled while the others fought and fell around them. She wrapped her fingers around his throat, squeezing and choking the air from his lungs, when she suddenly let out a cry, falling limp on top of him, her hands still at his neck. John rolled her off him, rubbing at his aching windpipe. He looked up to see Mary standing over him, a knife in her hand, and froze. She studied him a minute then offered him a hand. His eyes flicked to the rest of the battle scene.  Sally lay still on the ground, her head bloody. Anthea was beside her, an arrow in her chest.

Sebastian, giving up on John and seeing the rest of his fallen team, had fled. John could see him running away through the muddy field. Molly stood nearby, watching Mary sharply. She held her own knife and seemed prepared to attack the other girl. John looked back up at Mary, still offering a hand. 

Slowly, he took it. She pulled him to his feet, still with his hand in hers. “It seems we’ve both lost our teams,” she said coolly, the body of her own teammate, who she herself had killed, lay at her feet. “Shall we form a new one?” 

John glanced at Molly, who didn’t say anything, then back at Mary. “All right, then,” he nodded. She smiled and squeezed his hand. He smiled back. He was covered in mud, standing amid corpses, and had just made an ally Sherlock had forbidden him to make. Screw Sherlock.

A silky parachute floated down beside him. 

Sherlock had sent him a towel. Of course this was all being shown on tv. This was the stuff the audience loved. Well, you knew where you were with a towel. There was one for Molly too, and John handed it too her. He wished Sherlock could send him some tea as well.

He unfolded his own towel, ready to wipe the mud from his aching body. A note fell out.

_That was a poor move. Expect consequences from your actions._

“You don’t trust anyone, Sherlock,” John muttered. Behind him, Molly pulled something out from the folds of her gift.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock shows just how much he doesn't want to share, and we conclude.

A feast was called at the Cornucopia, and the three of them managed to eliminate the remaining tribute from District 9 and the two from District 3 before Sebastian arrived with his bow and arrows and perfect aim, and they had to grab what they could and run. They crouched down in the grass not too far away and sorted through their new supplies. They now had food and water.

Gratefully, John uncapped one of the bottles. There was a slight hiss and a strange smell rose from the water. “Wait!” John cried as Molly raised a second bottle to her lips. 

“John!” She protested and put the water back to her lips. He reached out and grabbed it from her before she could take a sip. Mary frowned at him. Suddenly a choked scream met their ears and she jumped to her feet. They were still close enough to see the Cornucopia. Sebastian had collapsed to the ground in front of it,  clawing at his chest and throat. John, Molly, and Mary picked up their packs and ran back to him. A bottle of water had dropped from his hand as he fell and had rolled a few feet of way from him, trailing a stream of water. 

“Poison,” John observed as Sebastian writhed in pain. Mary unsheathed her knife and put him out of his misery. 

A parachute drifted slowly down. A pack of water for them. And a note.

 _Yes, **brilliant**  deduction._ 

John could even read the sarcasm in Sherlock’s words. 

—-

In the next two days, as best one could judge in this constant state of sunlight, they encountered three of the last tributes, all from different districts, all on their own. The deaths were quick, the one never much of a match for the three. After John rolled the body of the last boy over, his arrow in the boy’s back, he looked up at the other two. 

“We’re the last ones,” he said quietly. “Aren’t we?”

Molly nodded. “Yes.”

She threw the knife with startling accuracy. Mary let out a cry and staggered back as the blood blossomed over her stomach. Molly stood and watched without emotion while John gave a shout and ran to Mary. She fell to the ground, breathing in gasps.

He turned angrily to Molly. “How could you?” He yelled. 

A parachute fluttered down. 

_How could **you** , John, after I did so much for you?_

“I - I don’t understand,” John stammered, getting to his feet. “Molly. What’s going on?” He stood in front of her. 

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, John.” The second knife moved as quickly as the first, and John felt the sudden impact in his chest. His eyes swam with pain as he collapsed. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He was the warrior. He was supposed to win. This was unexpected. This was betrayal. This was more pain than he’d ever expected was possible.

Molly was supposed to be the girl accidentally killed by one of the other tributes, tragically so. He was supposed to mourn her like a sister, then go on fighting. This was supposed to be Mary with the knives even, the one he wasn’t supposed to trust. But his own teammate. Timid little Molly. And Sherlock…Sherlock. What was Sherlock’s role in all of this? His fingers pawed against the ground, sinking in the mud as he tried to pull himself up. His body was collapsing. 

There was blood on his lips, blood pooling in his mouth. He could barely speak. “I should never trust…anyone…”

The parachute fell as he closed his eyes. He wouldn’t have been able to reach the note anyway. 

_I’m sorry._

—-

 _ **Then there was only the ocean and the sky and the figure of**_ little Molly Hooper, standing amid the corpses of Mary Morstan and John Watson, pulling out a crumpled note. 

_This is betrayal. You know what to do. SH._


End file.
